


Break my arms around the one I love

by waferkya



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Genderbending, Het, Marriage, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:32:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Pau is nineteen when he drops to one knee and asks, “Will you marry me?”.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break my arms around the one I love

Pau is nineteen when he drops to one knee and asks, “Will you marry me?”.

He’s offering a pretty gold ring with a single line of small, clear stones, and he looks so serious, and terrified, like if only he tried to stand up right now, he’d collapse like a wet cardboard box.

Júlia stares at him, she stares at the ring and says, “In twenty years, maybe.”

Pau’s face cracks into a small, hesitant smile.

“So, you will.”

She sighs and shrugs and shakes her head.

“Of course,” she says; her voice is firm and there’s a softness in her eyes that makes Pau’s heart stutter. He scrambles to get upright again, and when he slips the ring around her finger, their hands are shaking and their heads are close enough they hear each other breathing.

“You’re the worst,” she whispers, her eyes fixed on the sparkly thing she’s wearing — it’s nothing, and it weighs like the world. “This is your grandma’s.”

“I love you,” Pau tells her, like it’s just that easy. She rolls her eyes and tugs at the front of his t-shirt to get him closer still; when they kiss, he thinks he’s never ever going to love her more than he does right now. (He’s wrong.)

*

She sits with her nose buried in his chest, his fingers threading through her freshly-cut hair; she’s dared a little more this time, chopping off a good five fingers of hair for a fizzy cut, messy and just slightly masculine. She only spared one thin lock, and her mother turned it into a bright cotton wrap that has the colours of Barcelona and Catalunya in it.

Pau likes the haircut, he likes brushing his fingers through soft spiky tips, trying to smooth them down only to have them jump up again when he moves on. He likes it. He likes _her_ , he likes the way their bodies fit together and how warm she is in his arms.

“Can you come back soon?” he asks, in a whisper. Júlia shivers and scoots even closer, her small breasts squeezed inbetween them.

“You’re the one who should hurry up and stop sucking so much so they can draft you,” she mumbles, her voice raw like a wound. He thinks maybe she’s trying not to cry, and it’s enough to knock the breath out of him.

“I love you,” he says.

“Fuck,” she bites back, and when she tries to shift even just a little, he locks her up with his arms around her and kisses the top of her head.

“No, shut it, I love you,” he tells her again, and he loves the whiny sound she makes at that, too. “I’ll see you again in five months. It’s nothing, Júli.”

That’s not exactly true, because how can the ocean be nothing, and the timezones, and the fact that their lives are now splitting up like a tree hit by lightning; the insane amount of luggage crowding the hall is all the confirmation Pau would ever need that this is, indeed, not nothing. Júlia is moving halfway across the world, and that is something; he’s staying in Barcelona, and that is something too.

She took his favourite sweater, the one with the loose sleeves and the worn-out waistband, and tucked it away in the bag she’s carrying on the plane without a word; that, if nothing else, is a sign of the Apocalypse.

Pau tugs at her short, short hair, and Júlia tips her head back, she’s biting the tip of her tongue.

“Love you, too,” she mumbles, and really, he could see it in her eyes eons before she spoke, but it melts him anyway. He kisses her for a long while, then, holding on to her bony hips and praying that next week, someone will come up with a working teleporting machine.

*

He wins the King’s Cup and the League, he’s MVP in both finals and that’s what she’s most happy about: not her Rookie of the Year award, not the starter spot at the All-Star Game she won, not that her Lynxes have gotten to the play-offs for the first time in a decade. Pau’s year turns out great and she calls him and just laughs in his ear.

She says, “ _Tant se val d’on venim,_ ” and he answers, “ _Tots units fem força._ ”

And he gets drafted; the Hawks pick him and then trade him to Memphis and it could’ve been worse, all things considered. He could’ve ended up in Canada, but now his apartment — his place, not his home yet, — is four states away from Júlia’s and it’s a small improvement but it feels like the most important thing in the world.

*

She wears his ring everywhere, thumbing at it during interviews to keep herself from screaming and running away, counting the stones like she’s telling the beads on a rosary. Soon enough, it raises pointed looks and curious questions, from journalists and teammates and people she’s never met before, people she’ll never see again.

She smiles a little to herself and promises she’ll tell when she gets another ring to go with it; but she’s not entirely sure she wants anyone else to know.

Her mother doesn’t think they’ll last. She’s happy and she loves Pau and she’s never been less than kind to him, but she still thinks they’re just kids and they have no idea what they’re doing, no matter how many awards and medals and trophies they’re already starting to pile up.

Pau’s mother mostly agrees, even though her eyes go all sorts of watery whenever she’s around Júlia now, because she’s the one who gave Pau that ring in the first place, and told him to save it for _Someone_.

Júlia is reserved and quiet and she asks for basketball questions, she wants to tell the world everything about the team, their goals, their training routine, what they had for breakfast this morning, but please stick your noses out of her private life. Journalists eventually back off and everyone’s happy, but then Pau comes to America and, when the inevitable digging begins, everywhere she looks there’s pictures of them together in their _cantera_ years, and that time Pau won the junior championship with Barça B and then the next day he went to watch her win the feminine league with the women’s first team.

There’s pictures from the U16 Eurobasket, and private photos of their trips to the beach, and them practicing shots together at the park, and them together at all sorts of ceremonies, and there’s dresses and earrings she doesn’t even remember she ever wore.

Everyone’s favourite, however, is the one from the summer of 1999, the Junior World Cup in Lisbon; in the middle of the team’s cheering and screaming and laughing, Pau is leaning over a barrier so he can bury his face into the side of Júlia’s neck. She’s thrown her arms around him and she’s smiling, half-turned into the hug, and the ring is there already, a blink of gold around her slender finger to match the medal on Pau’s chest.

Júlia is fighting in her first ever WNBA play-offs, there’s an uncomfortable sting in her wrist that keeps coming back after practices, and after the first game, which they lose by five points against the Sparks and if only she’d scored that three-pointer fifty-six seconds ago maybe things would’ve been completely different, some journalist has the nerve to shove into her face a wrinkled picture of her and Pau standing back-to-back in full National Team gear.

“Just what is your relationship with Pau Gasol?” the dumb fuck asks, and Júlia cannot believe this guy. Her laughter rings sharp and bitter in the defeated locker room.

“Can’t you see it? He’s my personal water bottle carrier,” she says, and then she slams the door in his face. A pang of satisfaction runs through her backbone, then guilt kicks in, and Júlia’s thumb looks for a strip of stones around her finger but she had to take the ring off for the game.

*

When she calls Pau, later that night, his phone is switched off, so she leaves him a five-minutes message where mostly she just breathes, quiet and sad, and then in a whisper she apologizes for snapping at the journalist.

“I love you,” she says, a tad louder. “I just — I’ll play a better game, next time.”

She goes to bed with a big lump in her throat, she’s exhausted and she can’t even sleep. The coach confiscated all the remote controls to try and keep them safe from the manslaughter of the media, so there’s not even TV to keep her entertained; Júlia and Mary, her roommate, end up chatting the night away, and it’s not even all that bad.

*

It turns out that Pau’s phone was off because he was on a plane; Júlia wakes up to a missed call and a text that says, _room 506_. She doesn’t dare hoping, but then again, when she runs out of the elevator and knocks on the door to room 506, the tall, blond bastard is there, he’s really very much there and he’s smirking down at her and has _a water bottle_ and she lets out half a surprised hiccup before she jumps up in his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist.

Pau laughs and stumbles back, he kicks the door closed and whines when Júlia bites his lips. They end up tangled together in his bed, when she slips her shirt off he brushes his fingers up and around her hips, her sides; he cups her breasts and then runs his hands to her face, tipping it back to kiss her wet and properly.

She’s rubbing up against him, and he’s hard already by the time her hands find his belt.

“Pau, please God Pau fuck me,” Júlia sighs, arching her back off the bed; Pau growls a little, low in his chest, and he sucks a bright red mark on her neck, pinning her hips down.

She’s warm and smooth under his touch, she’s endless thighs and tender skin and the softest noises he’s ever heard; he wants to take his time with her, spoil her and open her up and taste her — learn her body all over again, have her tremble and beg and maybe even hate him a little, but it’s not what they both need now.

He wears a condom and when he lines himself up against her, she’s still wearing her bra, her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes pressed closed, her breath drawn in anticipation. Pau counts her ribs with the pads of his fingers as he pushes in as slowly as he manages, and Júlia thrusts against him and sighs and spreads her legs around his waist.

“Júli,” he says, and when she grabs him by the shoulders, lifting herself up a little, the ring he gave her burns cold against his skin.

He kisses a slow, dry line along her neck, after; she lies with her arms out and very little breath left in her lungs, and he shifts down from her swollen lips to the pale curve of her throat, he gently bites her where her collar bones jut out, and he unfastens her bra — she sighs when he takes it off her, and then the sigh turns into a hiccup when his mouth closes around the hard tip of a nipple.

Pau teases the oversensitive skin and holds Júlia’s hips down against the mattress; he sucks and licks at each small, firm breast, and he smiles at every tiny happy sound that Júlia lets escape. He shifts further down, then, following the curve of her ribcage and moving his hands up, spreading his fingers wide open around her hips; she’s not a small girl, but she’s smaller than him, so much that he can fold twice over her and he could still kiss her everywhere. He likes that — but then again, he likes everything about her, and them, and when he reaches the tense stretch of her stomach he lingers for a moment.

Júlia’s fingers are in his hair.

“Why’d you stop?” she asks, her voice still hot and moist. Pau smiles and lets himself be pushed down, until the scent of her is all he feels; the first, close-lipped kiss he places is met with a sharp intake of breath, and Júlia gasps and writhes the moment Pau pushes his tongue out a little. He adjusts his angle, and when he slowly drags his tongue along her skin, she locks her ankles behind his shoulders and pushes against his mouth.

*

“Sorry about yesterday,” he tells her, later, when they’re lying in bed and curling into each other a little. Júlia is so blissed out she has no idea what he’s talking about, so she makes a confused noise. Pau chuckles and leans in to kiss the tip of her nose. “The game.”

“Oh,” she says, a little terse. “That.”

“The refs were drunk, baby.”

Júlia laughs a little. “Maybe. I’ll be better tomorrow, though.”

“I know,” Pau says, and when he’s done kissing the breath out of her, he smirks. “I’m just worried about those poor Sparks ladies, you know.”

*

The Lynxes have to make do with being runner-ups, that year; Júlia is vaguely pissed off, but mostly she’s proud of how the team kept getting back up again every time the LA Sparks kicked the shit out of them. Moreover, it’s not like she hasn’t had a sensational season so far.

Still, losing stuff bothers her more than she’d like, but at least Pau’s around to keep her head and chest and hands and all of her busy. They both have a week off before he has to join the Grizzlies training camp and she has to fly back to Europe to start the Spanish league, and they end up shopping for furniture — because whoever decorated Pau’s new apartment was clearly colorblind and with the most horrific taste for fittings ever, — and stress-testing every flat surface in the house, and even a couple of not-so-flat ones.

*

The day she wins the World Cup in Brasil, Pau is sitting on the sideline, inside the commentators’ box. He’s barely holding it together, but then again, everyone else has stars in their eyes too, and they all are already tasting the gold on their tongues: the girls have been leading the game by at least fifteen points since the third quarter, Júlia has been ridiculous all tournament long, with crazy stats of twenty-five points per game and field goals percentages through the roof. It’s 2006, and Spain has never been World Champion in any team sports before.

Pau is barely making sense whenever he chimes in the running commentary. The crowd is singing mixed chants of _campeonas, campeonas, campeonas_ and _la Reina Navarro, Navarro, Navarro_ and _MVP, MVP, MVP_ ; when the last ten seconds tick in and Spain has possession and Amaya barely gets past the halfcourt line before throwing the ball away and yelling all her joy to the arena’s roof, the game is officially over and Pau jumps up, too, broken foot and all.

The siren blows and the entire Spanish bench flows into the court laughing and screaming; Montes is rambling in the mic and Pau only half-hears him through the headset. He’s cheering like the best of the audience, unable to keep it in; he’s so proud of these girls he almost doesn’t have any room left to still be sad about the World Cup he just fucked up himself.

Júlia is being passed around like she’s actually the trophy; everyone grabs her and hugs her and kisses her cheeks, the top of her head, her hands — she laughs and blushes and her eyes are all alight and at some point, she sees Pau on the other side of the court, she waves at him and he waves back.

Her happy face cracks into a genuine smile, then, one of those she guards like a dragon with his gold; she shrugs a little, like she doesn’t really know what’s going on at all, and Pau makes a show of rolling his eyes — he’s smiling so hard his face hurts all over, — and when he looks back down, she’s running to him.

There’s not much he can do except scoop her up and kiss her, tasting victory and weariness on her lips, and the slightest tinge of salt from the tears he’s glad he didn’t see.

The cheering in the arena around them just grows louder.

*

Eventually, she gives up a lot earlier than twenty years. Her mother talks her into doing things properly, with a party and a big lunch and a thousand guests, and most importantly, the ceremony at the church, even though for years _el cant del Barça_ has been the only prayer both Júlia and Pau have looked up to.

She wears a dress, which is white and fitted and she hates it so much he has to promise to her they’ll set it on fire this very night, even though it does amazing things to the shape of her body and he can’t quite tear his eyes off her, even more than usual; Justo walks her up the isle, but honestly it looks more like he’s the one holding onto her arm. He lets go of her reluctantly, and he’s deluded if the thinks there’s still a part of her that doesn’t belong to Pau already and he can hold on to that, but then again, he’s a big brother, and Pau can relate to the anxiety in his eyes.

“I don’t think I can go through with this,” he tells her in a whisper, leaning in the slightest bit as the priest swells his own chest up with big words.

Júlia gives a small nod.

“What was I thinking when I told you to wear that suit,” she says, and he’s glad they’re on the same page on this — the _I can’t wait to rip this thing off of you_ goes unspoken, but she reaches out and squeezes his hand.

“Just kiss her already, bro, I’m getting hungry here,” Marc says, from his élite spot as the best man, and he didn’t even speak in a very hushed tone. Pau covers his chuckled with a little cough, Júlia openly giggles, and the priest glares at them both. He talks even more slowly then, just to torture them, and Marc looks like he’s seriously thinking of shoving him away and get them married himself.

The worst thing is it wouldn’t even be bad.

“We’ll do things right tomorrow,” Júlia tells him, when the priest asks for their vows. Pau smiles, and she goes on. “I just — uh. I do. Love you. I loved you when you looked like Tweety so I don’t really see how I could ever — not — love you. I guess.”

Marc and Jorge — bastards — give a loud cheer at that; Júlia smirks. Pau tries to keep a straight face for her mother’s sake, but this is all very ridiculous and the only reason he’s putting up with it is the neckline of Júlia’s dress. That he can approve of.

“It’s not just that I love you, though,” she says, like it’s physically painful to speak up. “The thing is that I — I don’t want to. Love anyone else, ever. Sorry.”

Pau didn’t expect that — not that he didn’t know already, but hearing her say it, it does funny things to his, well, to his everything; he has to lean in and steal a quick kiss, then, if only to try and seal up those words like a promise.

The priest gives a curt cough and Pau stands a little straighter.

“I don’t remember a moment when I didn’t want to be with you, to be married to you,” he says, trying to keep his voice from going too soft. “I guess you won’t get rid of me.”

“Dick move, dick move!” Pichu whispers from behind Júlia’s back. “Don’t test her, bro.”

“He’s kinda right,” Júlia nods, with the straightest face possible. Pau smiles down at her, and she cracks up; they exchange rings — once again, Júlia’s mother insisted that they used proper, traditional golden wedding bands instead of their NBA championship rings, — and without further ado, and also vaguely pissed off, the priest hereby declares them husband and wife.

When they kiss, it doesn’t feel very different at all, but then again, it probably shouldn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> — WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN OH GOD. Written for [this prompt](http://i.imgur.com/GI1HI.jpg) from the Maritombola.
> 
> — _Tant se val d’on venim_ and _tots units fem força_ are lines from Barça’s hymn, and the respective translation is roughly: ‘it doesn’t matter where we come from’ and ‘together we are strong’.


End file.
